Like wealth, or health, political freedom may simply be something

Host: The night city pulsed with muted light — towers standing like silent sentinels, streets whispering in neon. From high above, in a downtown apartment, the world looked quiet, orderly, almost tranquil. But beneath the glass and steel, a different rhythm moved — one of noise, tension, and forgetfulness.

The windows were open just enough for the hum of distant sirens to slip in. Jack sat by the table, a glass of whiskey untouched beside him, a newspaper folded like an afterthought. Across from him, Jeeny leaned back in her chair, bare feet tucked beneath her, a cup of coffee cooling in her hands.

Between them, the news flickered on a muted TV — protests somewhere far away, the crawl of headlines no one wanted to read anymore.

Jeeny: “You’re quiet.”

Jack: “Noise doesn’t need commentary.”

Jeeny: “That’s cynical.”

Jack: “That’s observation.”

Host: She tilted her head, studying him — not with judgment, but with the kind of patience that comes from years of knowing someone who believes apathy is armor.

Jeeny: “You sound like the world’s already given up.”

Jack: “Maybe it has.”

Jeeny: “No. It’s just forgotten how to be grateful.”

Jack: (smirking) “You think gratitude saves democracies?”

Jeeny: “It’s a start.”

Host: She turned the TV volume up just slightly. The sound of chanting filled the air — distant, desperate, familiar.

Jeeny: “Anne Applebaum once said something that fits this perfectly — ‘Like wealth, or health, political freedom may simply be something that people don't value if they've always had it.’”

Jack: “Yeah. I read that essay. She wasn’t wrong.”

Jeeny: “Then why do you sound like you don’t care?”

Jack: “Because caring feels like shouting into wind these days. You talk about freedom, and people look at you like you’re quoting history, not describing reality.”

Jeeny: “That’s exactly what she meant, Jack. Freedom becomes invisible when it’s constant — like air. You don’t notice it until it’s poisoned.”

Jack: “You think ours already is?”

Jeeny: “I think it’s leaking.”

Host: The rain began against the glass — light, steady, the sound of a city thinking.

Jack: “Funny thing about freedom. Everyone wants to defend it until it means defending someone they disagree with.”

Jeeny: “That’s not freedom. That’s favoritism dressed in ideology.”

Jack: “And yet, that’s where we live.”

Host: He gestured toward the TV — images of burning flags, shouting crowds, faces twisted in certainty.

Jack: “Everyone thinks they’re the oppressed one now. Victimhood’s the new currency.”

Jeeny: “Because real oppression’s invisible until it’s too late. People mistake comfort for permanence.”

Jack: “You think that’s what Applebaum meant?”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Freedom’s not a gift — it’s a habit. And when you stop practicing it, you lose it without realizing.”

Jack: “You make it sound like going to the gym.”

Jeeny: “In a way, it is. If you don’t exercise your rights — if you don’t test your muscles against the weight of dissent — they atrophy.”

Host: He leaned back in his chair, staring at the city through the rain-streaked glass.

Jack: “You know, my grandfather used to talk about the war. Said he didn’t fight for flags or parties. He fought because he didn’t like the idea of being told when he could speak, or where he could stand.”

Jeeny: “And now?”

Jack: “Now we tell ourselves when to shut up. Self-censorship’s cheaper than courage.”

Jeeny: “Because it’s safer.”

Jack: “Yeah. And safety’s the prettiest cage ever built.”

Host: She looked at him then — really looked — the firelight catching in her eyes.

Jeeny: “You think it’s hopeless?”

Jack: “No. Just… fading.”

Jeeny: “Then light something.”

Jack: (laughing) “You think idealism fixes rot?”

Jeeny: “No. But it reminds people where the foundations are.”

Host: The rain grew heavier. A flash of lightning illuminated the skyline, showing the city in a single frozen frame — so alive, and yet so unaware of its own fragility.

Jack: “You know, I don’t think people want freedom anymore.”

Jeeny: “They want comfort. They want certainty. Freedom’s messy. It asks too many questions.”

Jack: “And promises no answers.”

Jeeny: “That’s the point.”

Host: The thunder rolled far away, soft and lingering.

Jeeny: “You remember the story of the frog in the pot?”

Jack: “Yeah. He doesn’t notice he’s boiling until it’s too late.”

Jeeny: “That’s what happens to societies. The heat rises one policy, one excuse, one fear at a time. And no one jumps because it’s not uncomfortable enough — yet.”

Jack: “So what’s the solution?”

Jeeny: “Wake up before the water steams.”

Jack: “That’s not a plan. That’s poetry.”

Jeeny: “Poetry’s where revolutions begin.”

Host: Her voice had shifted — low, firm, carrying the quiet conviction that comes not from idealism, but from remembrance.

Jeeny: “We forget too easily, Jack. People died for this — for the right to argue, to criticize, to exist without permission. And now we treat those rights like background noise.”

Jack: “You think it’s nostalgia?”

Jeeny: “No. It’s negligence.”

Host: He turned off the TV. The silence afterward felt heavier than the broadcast.

Jack: “You know, sometimes I think history doesn’t repeat. It just loses its audience.”

Jeeny: “Then maybe it’s our job to remind people that they’re still in the story.”

Jack: “And what happens if they don’t listen?”

Jeeny: “Then they’ll learn the hard way what silence costs.”

Host: Outside, the city lights shimmered through the rain — reflections on glass, fragile and fleeting, like the idea they were discussing.

Jack: “You think freedom ever feels permanent?”

Jeeny: “Only to those who’ve never had to fight for it.”

Jack: “And when they lose it?”

Jeeny: “They finally understand what it meant.”

Host: The thunder rumbled once more, closer now, as if echoing her words.

Jack: “You sound like a warning.”

Jeeny: “I’m a reminder.”

Host: She stood and walked to the window, her hand resting lightly on the glass, her reflection merging with the city beyond.

Jeeny: “Applebaum was right. Freedom’s like oxygen — invisible until it’s gone. And by the time you notice you can’t breathe, it’s already too late to ask who turned off the air.”

Jack: (quietly) “Then maybe we need to start breathing again.”

Jeeny: “No. We need to start valuing it.”

Host: The rain began to ease, the city beneath glistening — fragile, renewed, alive. The two stood in silence, watching the world they were still a part of, the one still capable of remembering.

And as the light shifted, Anne Applebaum’s words lingered like a prophecy fulfilled in slow motion:

“Like wealth, or health, political freedom may simply be something that people don’t value if they’ve always had it.”

Because the tragedy of comfort
is how easily it masquerades as freedom.

And the danger of forgetting
is believing the cage was always home.

Freedom isn’t inherited —
it’s maintained.

Not through applause,
but through awareness.

Not by remembering history,
but by refusing to repeat its silence.